months.

Tonight I crept into Lucy’s room and blinded her repeatedly with the flash of my camera as I took pictures of her sleeping. It’s the last time before she turns one tomorrow. The last pictures of her being a baby. I couldn’t help but scoop her up and rock her for a bit. Birthdays are so bitter sweet. I have been four times openly defied by my kids (well, thousands of times, really, but humor me): I forbid each of them to grow up and they still have gone and done it doggonnit. But tonight I felt time slow down at least a bit and I did my part in holding up the clock by rocking my baby while she slept. I prayed.

I asked for forgiveness for the times I’ve resented the extra work she’s produced for me and for the times I’ve wondered about how easy my life would be right now with just these older, independent kids to take care of and about the kinds of adventures we could be having if we weren’t tied down by naps and strollers and short attention spans (although hers is far longer than either of the boys). I praised God for the way she’s brought out the best in each of us, for the way Grant listens outside her door each morning for her first peep so he can run in and rescue her and bring her to me all dewey eyed and tousel-haired from her rest, for the way she’s taught us to celebrate teeny milestones like going up stairs and signing all done, for the answer she’s prompted from each of our older children when asked by a neighbor boy (you know who you are) if they like having a baby sister an immediate and emphatic, “yeah”.

This is what a baby looks like on the night she turns 1:

See I told you I was blinding her. I’m sorry Lulu, but it’s a milestone.

Dan will kill me when he sees these pictures and in rebuttal I’ll quote, “The only thing it is permissible to steal is a kiss from a sleeping baby.”